In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung,

2 And lovingly salute against her will,

Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe:
She'd lever thousand times they did her kill,
Than force her such vile baseness undergo.
Anon some giant his huge self will show,
Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave,
With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow:
She surely deems him her live, walking grave,
From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save.

3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, A boundless sea she finds of misery;

The fiery snorts of the leviathan,

That makes the boiling waves before him fly,
She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye:
If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threat' ning rocks
Her frighted self do straightway terrify;

Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks.

SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN.

Like to a light fast lock'd in lantern dark,
Whereby by night our wary steps we guide
In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark,
Some weaker rays through the black top do glide,
And flusher streams perhaps from horny side.
But when we've passed the peril of the way,

Arrived at home, and laid that case aside,

The naked light how clearly doth it ray,

And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day.

2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state.
Confined to these strait instruments of sense,
More dull and narrowly doth operate.

At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence,
Here tastes, there smells; but when she's

hence,
Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere,
And round about has perfect cognoscence
Whate'er in her horizon doth appear:
She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear.

gone from

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE.

CHAMBERLAYNE was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and in 1659, ' Pharronida,' a heroic poem.

The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might

say,

'I was the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.'

Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance—

'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food ;'

"Harsh poverty,

and this

That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit ;'

but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly elaborate poem.

ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS.

The Turks had ought

Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought
Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now,
Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow
Their stubborn resolutions with the strength
Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length
Of the chronical disease extended had
To some few months, since to oppress the sad
But constant islanders, the army lay,

Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay
From battle rusts the soldier's valour in

His tainted cabin, there had often been,
With all variety of fortune, fought

Brave single combats, whose success had brought
Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow

Of either party; but the balance, now
Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined
Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined
In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard

The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared
The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck
A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look
Who next the lists should enter; each desires
The task were his, but honour now requires
A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies
The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice;

To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free
Consent of all, Argalia comes to be

Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until
The combat ends, the expecting people fill
The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake
Their tents, of whom the city ladies take

A dreadful view, till a more noble sight

Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight
With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat
They toil for victory. The conflict's heat
Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed
Than burning calentures could do; both blamed
The feeble influence of their stars, that gave
No speedier conquest; each neglects to save
Himself, to seek advantage to offend

The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong
Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength

Cooled, on the ground, with his blood-he fell at length,
Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew
O' the villains that did at a distance view

Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot,
Running to succour him, begin a hot

And desperate combat with those knights that stand
To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand
Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent
His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent
His scattered troops.

*

Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die

A sacrifice unto the cruelty

Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in
The combat late he slew; yet liad not been

In that so much unhappy, had not he
That honoured then his sword with victory,
Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright
But cruel lady, whose refined delight

Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not
Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot
Contention of her blood, which he foresaw
That heavy news would from her anger draw,
To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent
Him living to her, that her anger, spent
In flaming torments, might not settle in
The dregs of discontent. Staying to win
Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were
Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there

To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest
Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd
With speedy death, though waited on by all
The hell-instructed torments that could fall
Within invention's reach; but he's not yet
Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit
Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use
Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse
Of suffering Christians, once, before they take
The ornaments of nature off, to make

Their prisoners public to the view, that all
Might mock their miseries: this sight did call
Janusa to her palace-window, where,
Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear
Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till
Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill,
As the most pleasing object, with the sight
Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight
Of her loved brother's soul.